


Drawing Closer

by second_skin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Art Is the Cure, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, John Pines for Sherlock, M/M, Magic Kiss, Magical Artifacts, Romance, Sherlock-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-10
Updated: 2012-04-10
Packaged: 2017-11-03 10:30:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/380407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/second_skin/pseuds/second_skin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Sherlock is given a gift that awakens his captive heart. This is a modern-day fairy tale set in a cottage in Wales. Sherlock is quite OOC. And there's a bunny. And sex, of course. Not with the bunny. This isn't the kink meme.<em></em></em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drawing Closer

**Author's Note:**

> _Written for Sherlockmas 2011 on LJ, as a gift for fenm._   
>  _Deepest, deepest thanks to marysutherland for perfectly targeted beta wisdom. She made this story a lot better._   
> 

The cottage Donovan had arranged for them was 175 miles northwest of London-- dreadfully tedious car ride in which Sherlock's long legs cramped and numbed. The detective complained almost constantly during the three-hour journey to Trewern, the obscure village near Offa's Dyke that Sally had dumped them in. John had got the roomier front seat next to Lestrade by pointing to his cane and flashing those hapless wounded puppy eyes at the D. I., who succumbed as always. The doctor had climbed into the car after tossing Sherlock a sly, triumphant grin.

When they arrived at the small stone cottage, Sherlock unfolded himself from the backseat and insisted that Lestrade drag the microscope, boxes of supplies, and two small suitcases into the cottage while John lit the fire and put on the kettle. For his part, Sherlock inspected the two dusty bedrooms, tiny, vintage 1950s bathroom, and spacious garden. The trees were bare and the grass mostly brown, but he heard the brav e, plaintive song of a robin perched in a tree just outside the kitchen window. The place was primitive compared to their London flat, of course--and as cold as expected in mid-January. But it would do for the week or so they had to stay hidden away. Just long enough to lure an international jewel thief into making a few mistakes.

The thief was currently living in exile in the Costa del Sol, but had tangled with Sherlock once before--and spent two years in prison as a result. Sherlock had fought Lestrade bitterly on the D.I.'s plan to sequester the Baker Street pair in godforsaken Wales. But eventually he accepted the Met's conclusion that the thief was waiting for Sherlock to leave London before setting a massive heist in motion. With John and Sherlock in hiding, Lestrade's team would set a trap. Then Sherlock and John could return to London and help complete the operation.

For this Welsh holiday, Sherlock brought along anatomy and geology books, soil samples, human tissue samples, and at the last moment, decided to toss in the expensive pad of cotton rag drawing paper and charcoal pencils that a grateful client had given him recently. The client was a stooped old woman clad in black skirt and shawl, whose grandson had disappeared. Sherlock had made quick work of finding the boy before he was spirited out of the country by Eastern European traffickers. The charcoal pencils--in a beautiful, hand-tooled leather case--were an odd form of payment, but the woman had seen Sherlock idly sketching human skeletons while listening to her describe her son's plight, so perhaps she assumed he was an amateur artist.

As it happened, he was. For a few years at university, Sherlock had calmed his frenetic mind by dissecting and then making precise drawings of animals and insects--drawings, if he did say so himself, which were better than those in any zoology textbook. So perhaps he'd take up his old hobby again‚ he thought, if only to make the time pass more quickly in bloody Trewern.

Lestrade dropped the massive box containing Sherlock's books onto the dining table with a loud thud and an even louder grumble. "Well, if you two are okay, I'll be off now. Work to do back in the real world."

"Hmpf. Yes. Goodbye, Lestrade. And remember--keep your mobile on at all times and reply immediately to any of my queries, and don't allow Mycroft to . . ."

"Shut up, Sherlock," barked Lestrade impatiently. "John, I'm really sorry to be leaving you here alone with him. If there were any better option, I'd have taken it. Good luck, mate." And then the D.I. raced out of the front door, jumped into the car, and sped away.

John stood in the kitchen, tea mug in hand, looking more than a little worried.

*****

During their first afternoon in the cottage, both Sherlock and John were busy settling in and setting up the microscope, Bunsen burner, and experiments in the small dining area. John dutifully took on the role of lab assistant. And he did a bit of shopping for food, glass jars of various sizes, and other provisions. The village shops were just a half mile down the road--a pleasant walk, despite the chill in the air.

John brightened and relaxed as afternoon became evening, Sherlock observed. It must be the familiar look of the place. John had grown up in a so-called "quaint" village like this and seemed positively giddy when he came back from the shops to tell Sherlock about the old ladies he'd met who scolded him about his lack of gloves and scarf, and the lovely bit of ham he'd got the butcher to slice for sandwiches, and the little girl next door who had five pet rabbits and blah, blah, blah. Sherlock was determined to delete it all at the first opportunity.

That night, in matching armchairs upholstered in a tired, threadbare plaid, the two men balanced plates on their knees and ate the shepherd's pies John had brought home from the local cafe. Sherlock was not going to move his equipment and library from the dining table for every meal, thank you very much. Glancing up occasionally, Sherlock noticed that John's eyes and thoughts were clearly focused directly on him.

Oh dear. The doctor had that familiar look of fondness and longing. Sherlock feared his cottage-mate was going to bring up the subject of their _relationship_ again. He was needing something, wanting something that Sherlock couldn't provide. Sherlock tried to put it out of his mind, but it nagged its way back in at times like these.

He frankly didn't understand why they had to go down the same path over and over again. They'd had the discussion at least three times already, and Sherlock had made it clear he could not change himself to meet John Watson's requirements or wishes. He considered John an important--even vital--colleague and would even go so far as to call him a _friend_. But he had no interest in the _something more_ John had hinted that he wanted. Whether it was emotional or physical closeness--they had awkwardly discussed John's desire for both--the answer would always be _no._

Since his teens, Sherlock had considered himself not only unwilling, but also unable to enter into a romantic or sexual relationship. His mind and his body were simply not equipped. He had a vague memory of having once had such feelings, but . . . that was all it was, a foggy memory. His "heart" was closed to that sort of business. Poets and simpletons liked to imbue the small, efficient pump whose function was simple blood circulation with intangible qualities related to love and lust, didn't they? _Unscientific rubbish._ Well, _his_ cardiac muscle was not made for that foolishness and that was the way he expected it to remain for the foreseeable future.

John knew he was welcome to find another object of affection, if that was what he truly required. But Sherlock admitted to himself (though not to John) that the thought of the doctor wasting valuable work time on moon-gazing and cuddling and Valentines with someone else was irritating, to say the least.

Here and now, they had a rare opportunity to just work together in the solitude of this backward village for a few days, so John had better get any other ideas out of his mind as quickly as possible.

* * * * *

On their second day in the village the elderly ladies who'd adopted John as their special project invited him on a birdwatching expedition, leaving Sherlock on his own for hours, so he decided to open the crisp white pad of paper and leather pencil case. Sherlock hadn't really done anatomical drawings in years, so he thought it best to warm up with some simple sketches. He began by capturing and anesthetizing a large spider he found in the dilapidated garden shed behind the cottage.

The sketches of the spider, done from several angles with the help of his magnifying glass, and with great attention to detail, turned out quite nicely, and gave Sherlock a little tickle of satisfaction when he looked at them. It was a bit odd, he thought, that the spider kept waking up from the anesthesia and moving every few minutes as he sketched --and the damn thing started crawling this way and that when Sherlock was concentrating on getting its legs drawn just right. Still, once it was finished, Sherlock couldn't wait to do another. He wished John were around to admire his skill. Truth be told, he just wished John were around. Full stop.

Sherlock then decided to steal a rabbit from the pen next door and create a more complex picture, with more texture and a three-dimensional look.

Scooping a lump of brown and white fur into his arms and carrying it back to the cottage, Sherlock momentarily thought how much more interesting the artwork would be if it were depicting the _inside_ of the rabbit--all those organs overlaying one another, all those delicate bones, muscles, tendons . . . But he knew John would be appalled and might take months to forgive him for slaughtering the creature--even if it was for good scientific purposes. So he settled for just kidnapping "Bonnie Bunny," (the name inscribed on her homemade pink leather collar) instead.

Sherlock placed the rabbit in the empty crate that had held his books, added a bit of salad from the fridge and a small tea towel. He set the crate on the floor next to one of the armchairs and arranged himself and his sketchbook in a comfortable position. The rabbit was cooperative for the most part, as Sherlock lightly sketched the outline of head, ears, body, legs. But as soon as he began to work in earnest, focusing on the shape of her nose and the curve of her back, Bonnie began to flinch, squirm, and squeeze herself into the corner of the crate.

Sherlock puzzled over the phenomenon for a few minutes. Then he decided to move away from the cr ate and just make a few needed adjustments to the basic outline he had already created, thinking the creature would calm down if he ignored her. He took his thumb and began smudging shadows into the darker areas of the animal's belly and chest. Then he took up his pencil again to cross-hatch some areas of fur to indicate texture. To his surprise, when he glanced at Bonnie, she was lying on her side, tilting her head like a lazy cat, as if Sherlock were rubbing her just under her chin, the spot he was carefully cross-hatching with his pencil. How odd. If he hadn't known better he would have thought there was a bit of sorcery going on.

Just then John bounded into the cottage with tales of vicious attacks by mute swans and more pleasant encounters with tiny redwings. He toted a shopping bag with milk, two small cakes, and a large plastic container of lamb stew gifted from one of his birding companions.

Sherlock endured a brief scolding (easily ignored) before John returned the rabbit to the neighbors. Then the two men enjoyed their stew in front of the TV, watching an American medical drama that Sherlock usually tolerated because it sometimes introduced him to an obscure disease, drug, or poison he could file away for later reference. John clearly enjoyed it for the banter--and occasional homoerotic tension--between the two lead actors.

All in all, thought Sherlock, as he climbed into bed with his copy of Hartemink, McBratney, and White, _Soil Science_ , volume 1, it was as good a day as one could reasonably expect to have in the middle of winter at the ragged edge of civilization.

*****

By their fourth day in the cottage (no word from Lestrade yet, dammit), Sherlock and John still had a stockpile of large logs left by the owner, but were running low on kindling for the fireplace, so John went into a nearby patch of trees to gather more. An hour later, the doctor came limping through the front door, ashen-faced and exhausted. He had fallen into a muddy ditch and twisted his ankle.

After a significant amount of cursing, John determined that it was only a light sprain and he simply needed to lie on the sofa with the foot elevated and iced for the rest of the night. Sherlock made a show of how put-upon he was, forced to bring John tea and toast and leftover ham and pickle--to say nothing of the ice, the extra blankets, the book. "No, not that one, the other one." _My God, would it never end?_ And why wouldn't John let Sherlock keep the damn rabbit just one more day--who would miss a beady-eyed Lagomorph like that?

By four p.m. John was fast asleep on the sofa and Sherlock had decided he'd turn the doctor into his next art project. Sherlock began drawing a careful outline of John's head and torso. His fingers felt toasty and lively as he sketched--as if the paper itself were warm and alive, and he could swear there was something like wool rubbing against his knuckles while he was drawing and erasing and redrawing to get the folds and drapes of John's blanket just right.

In one corner of his mind, Sherlock realized he'd lost the original scientific goal of his artwork, and that troubled him. But at the same time, the doing of it was now such a pleasure that he saw no reason to stop. He liked the way the firelight was casting deep shadows across one side of John's face and brightly highlighting the planes on the other side. So Sherlock took the point of his softest pencil and pressed it into the paper, slowly building up the layers of shadow in the hollow area below John's cheekbone.

John sat up immediately and cried out, rubbing his face and looking around in confusion. "Did something bite me, Sherlock? I felt a terrible piercing pain under my eye just now."

Sherlock's eyes widened, but he said nothing--just shook his head and retreated to the far side of the room, carrying his sketch book and pencils with him.

Needless to say‚ this whole mystery demanded a full investigation right away, but Sherlock didn't want to involve John, so he determined to look at the evidence alone--after dinner.

Sherlock pretended to retire to bed at the same time as John, but in fact, he waited silently until John had been sleeping soundly for precisely two hours. Then he crept into the doctor's room and set himself up with paper and pencils on a bench opposite John's bed.

Sherlock felt the unusual sensation of being unsure of his next move--and more than a little anxious. He decided on just barely setting down the outline of the bed, the pillows, the puffy duvet. So far, so good. Nothing unusual happening. Then he grew bolder with each stroke. He began to trace the line of John's jaw onto the paper and as he did so, he recognized that the impossible was now quite possibly the probable. There was indeed some form of magic in the pencils or the paper or both.

When his pencil captured the cut of John's jaw and the abbreviated line of his short neck, Sherlock could feel the warmth of skin and a scratch of stubble on his fingers. John sighed and stretched and seemed to feel something too.

Sherlock was in completely new territory--trying to analyze something without precedent in his experience--and it was exhilarating.

He knew what he wanted to do next: He wanted to see and touch John's scars, his battle wounds. He'd never been close enough before--had only seen them fleetingly when John emerged from a shower or in the hospital once, when John had been laid up with cracked ribs inflicted by a rather nasty Colombian drug dealer. Sherlock now wanted to draw John's scars--to map each and every one and memorize the look and the feel and perhaps even the taste of them.

Sherlock pulled the duvet down to John's waist and made a quick sketch. But John was in his t-shirt, and that was _not_ helpful. Sherlock ripped the page out of his sketchbook and started again. Using his memory and imagination, he drew a simple outline of John without his t-shirt. When he looked up, that's precisely how the real John appeared, lying there on the bed, naked from the waist up.

Sherlock stood and leaned over John's body in the semi-darkness, cradling his sketchbook in the crook of his arm, gazing at the man beneath him and using his pencil to place muscles, freckles and scars in some rough approximation of the correct spots so that paper John matched flesh-and-blood John. With the pads of his fingers, Sherlock felt the rough and smooth patches of John's skin, the tender white flesh along his rib cage. The soft hair on his forearms. _Beautiful_ was the only word he could think of--and he said it in a whisper, not wanting to wake his friend. Not wanting to break the spell he still did not understand.

Sherlock's mouth was parched and his knees were starting to wobble. Too much time balanced on his toes so he could get the right view, he assumed. But then something else happened, and he had no good explanation for it. He felt his penis swelling, stiffening. Felt a trickle of sweat roll down between his shoulder blades. He was itchy and ticklish and he wanted . . . something. _What did he want? He couldn't seem to name it._

John was moaning softly in response to the invisible hands skimming across his arms and chest as Sherlock continued to sketch. John twisted and tucked his legs up, hugging his pillow tight, covering his chest. Sherlock ripped out the page he'd been rubbing and shading with his index finger and began a new drawing on the next blank page.

He could no longer control his own breathing--it was shallow and fast. He closed his eyes and made a simple, loose contour line drawing of John naked, lying on his side, eyes closed, but right hand extended toward the viewer--toward Sherlock. For a few minutes Sherlock simply stood motionless, laying his palm on John's palm as he'd drawn it on the page.

Unbelievable. He could feel a _pulse_ beating against his hand.

Sherlock knew he was losing control now--he wasn't able to stop his pencil from tracing slowly, almost teasingly up the inside of John's thigh, the line a shaky zigzag. John groaned and shivered, but didn't wake. Sherlock held his breath. He dragged his fingers along paper John's torso, down to just above the three or four quickly drawn, barely visible lines where John's cock should be. Sherlock stared at the paper, wondering whether this was something that required John's consent. Wondering whether he should wake him now and . . .

He heard John sigh and stopped wondering. He didn't want to wake him yet, and didn't mind doing this without John's explicit consent. He'd dragged John along on dangerous missions before; this was no different, he assured himself. Except that it was probably more dangerous for Sherlock than John.

Sherlock slowly, lovingly rubbed his thumb over the empty space on the page where John's groin should be, and watched real John's back arch and his cock thicken and stand at attention. Sherlock held his breath, swaying backward and letting the tips of his fingers and the heel of his hand press into the paper, watching real John's reactions of pleasure. He seemed to want more. Sherlock felt more alive in that instant--despite the certainty that none of this could possibly be real--than he had in years. He felt so alive he never wanted to stop, never wanted to leave this room.

Sherlock swallowed down an odd sensation and tried to identify what he was feeling now. Maybe . . . maybe there was something invasive about what he was doing. Maybe John wouldn't like it. Maybe he should consider whether John would object.

Sherlock pressed his cheek against quickly rendered dark and light strands of John's hair on a new page. Surely this was all right, though. Just touching John's hair. And good lord, it even smelled like John.

The living pulse and body heat of John H. Watson were traveling through Sherlock's skin and into his bloodstream. It was now becoming too much to bear, this hyper-reality. This _magic_.

Sherlock took a step closer to the bed, hoping to compare the scent he thought was just John's portrait, to the real John. But then the doctor's eyes began fluttering open and he moaned as though he were really waking up. Morning light was beginning to filter in through the tall windows.

He had been standing there watching John sleep all night.

He grabbed the paper and the pencils and ran into the sitting room. He placed them on the dining table, then pulled on his coat, and ran out of the door into the cold snowy morning. He would walk to the village, get some air, get some perspective and control. Perhaps he'd call Lestrade--see if was time to go back to London. Back to normal.

Yes. Normal. And he'd come back through the patch of trees and bring back some kindling. That would please John, wouldn't it?

All morning in the village and in the woods, Sherlock couldn't help turning over the events of the week in his mind, analyzing, trying to make sense of it all. It wasas if the act of drawing was opening up a new universe, letting him feel things he hadn't felt since he was a child--things he had forgotten. Things he still didn't understand.

Sherlock came back to the cottage with his arms full of small branches and twigs. John wasn't there. He panicked for a moment, but then reminded himself that John wouldn't just leave. He couldn't. He was still probably limping from the sprain. No car. No train for miles. No taxis. John had probably just stepped out for fresh air. Sherlock decided to try to make a fire and get the place warm and comfortable for John when he returned.

As he put the larger logs into a teepee shape and shoved kindling and newspapers beneath--exactly as he'd seen John do all week--he heard the doctor's voice in his head.

_Since when did you start doing kindnesses for other people, you git? Don't tell me you've suddenly turned into a human being?_

In Sherlock's head, John said this with a fond smile; he hoped he'd smile, anyway.

Sherlock had just about got the fire going well enough to begin warming the sitting room to a pleasant temperature when he heard the front door creak open. A blast of cold air. The sound of boots stomping away snow and mud, a coat unzipped and falling to the floor. Sherlock didn't want to turn around yet. He was uncomfortable with the fact that he couldn't think of the words, the phrases to express himself clearly. Uncomfortable with being uncomfortable.

When he finally turned around, laying down the iron poker he'd been using on the fire, he saw John sitting in one of the hideous plaid armchairs. Tugging at his left boot. Wincing. The ankle was still bothering him.

Sherlock walked a step towards John and knelt down in front of him. He still didn't want to look John in the eyes, didn't want to speak--but he did want to touch him again. Needed to touch him. So he placed his palms on top of John's hands. John's hands that were wet and cold from all that time outside in the snow. Those old ladies were right--why the hell wasn't the man wearing gloves? Without thinking, Sherlock pulled his friend's hands to his own face and placed them on his cheeks, which were warm and pink from standing so close to the fire, prodding it to life. Quickly, Sherlock's body heat seeped into John's fingers, bringing them to life as well.

When Sherlock's glance finally met John's, the doctor was grinning and his eyes were glistening. That was common, Sherlock noted--anyone's eyes would produce excess moisture to protect themselves from bitter cold.

"Sher-lock," John's voice caught for an instant between syllables.

"Let me help you get this boot off," said Sherlock, letting go of John's hands and tugging one, two, three times and then falling backward onto the ragged blue rug, boot in hand. Now he was grinning too.

Sherlock felt his heart beating hard and fast now, and with every squeeze and release, he imagined the chambers filling up with some new solution--something akin to John Watson's essence dissolved in plasma.

John lowered himself slowly onto the rug next to Sherlock, and gave him that familiar, fond and longing look again. Except this time Sherlock didn't mind the look. He rather liked it.

Sherlock couldn't quite monitor everything that was happening now, but he knew he was managing short gasps of breath, trying to focus on slowing the quick-step of his heart to a more leisurely waltz. There was a barely visible tremor in his left hand--the hand that was hovering a few inches from John Watson's shoulder. The hand that was on the verge of caressing John and pressing him closer. Why didn't he just do it? What was there to be afraid of? This was John. Just John. A scary bastard when armed and racing down a dark alley, but now he shouldn't be frightening at all, should he?

Sherlock leaned towards John, attempting an embrace--but forgetting he had John's wet, muddy boot clutched in his right hand--now making a hideous pattern of brown splotches all over John's white wool jumper.

Sherlock pulled away and stood up, facing the fireplace again. Right now he wanted to go back to sitting a few feet away from John, drawing the curving lines of his chin or toes. Touching John safely, with the barrier of paper and pencil between them. He didn't like all this uncertainty--all this not knowing what to do next.

But John Watson was having none of that. He pushed himself up from the rug too. "You actually made a fire yourself? I'm starting to worry about your health, Sherlock," John chuckled, and stepped a little closer.

"I know you're joking, John, but . . . I do think there's something odd going on. I don't quite understand what's happening. I . . ." Words failed Sherlock again, so he just shrugged.

The doctor adjusted himself so his weight was on his good leg. "Is this something to do with your drawing, Sherlock? Is it the artwork you're doing that . . . that's made you so off kilter? Is that it?"

"It's not art--it's . . . _scientific illustration_. And that's a very silly notion you've concocted, John. Art isn't magic--it's line and color and perspective and . . . Unfortunately, I have no idea what the real explanation for my absurd behaviour is right now."

Sherlock made a point of avoiding John's gaze. He looked at the array of charcoal pencils, spilled over the dining table. He walked over to pick them up--plus a couple of drawings of John that had fallen on the floor. He began to place the pencils--one by one--back into the pretty leather case embossed with his initials. As he was trying to fit them into the case, he noticed that there was a small note at the bottom that he hadn't seen earlier. He removed it. Smudged black ink, tiny scrawl on cheap writing paper:

_Mr. Holmes,_

_The pencils I've given you, if used properly, will begin to draw out the poison of the enchantment placed on your heart many years ago. They will allow you to touch and be touched by another soul again. But their magic is not strong enough to awaken your sleeping heart permanently. I wish it were._

_There is a way for you to restore your heart completely, but the magic is exceedingly hard to come by. Because you helped me find my grandson and thus returned a part of my own heart, I feel I owe it to you to tell you the truth, though I suspect you won't believe it._

_If ever you meet the one Fate has destined for you--your soul mate--then one kiss will break the spell and set your heart free again. I wish you the best of luck._

_With love and deepest gratitude,_

_Angelique_

Sherlock read the note over a few times--certain that this was an encoded message he should decipher. It couldn't possibly be taken at face value.

He looked up, his brow still furrowed in thought, to see John Watson standing inches away. John cocked his head in that oddly boyish way that disarmed hardened criminals and bureaucrats alike--but had no effect on chip and pin machines.

"You okay, Sherlock? You look paler than usual," he asked softly.

"I'm . . . Yes. I'm fine. I think I'm fine."

John stepped closer. _The color of John's eyes is very . . . John_ , was all Sherlock could think at that moment, and half of his brain berated the rest for the absurdity of that statement. Still, it was true, wasn't it? _Uncommonly John._

John stretched out his hand and touched his palm to Sherlock's forehead, checking for fever. Sherlock drew in a breath, shocked by the cool of the doctor's skin against the simmering heat of his own. And now he was shocked again by the desire he felt coiling tight in his belly.

"You're a little feverish, Sherlock--shall we sit down? I could make tea?"

 _No,_ thought Sherlock. _I can't sit down and I can't drink any bloody tea. I can't let you move away from me when I need you even closer, need to wrap my arms around you and kiss you to undo the spell._

His rational brain was on full alert now--raising red flags and sending out distress calls. He had to stop thinking about this irrational "magical" foolishness. Stop thinking about John in a way that would destroy their working partnership. It could lead to nothing but complications--like every other so-called romantic relationship he'd ever observed. People accomplished nothing when in love. And even less when in lust. Did he want criminals running rampant in London? No. He must say this to John--and himself--again. Must make it clear.

But just then John took both Sherlock's hands in his , whispering, "You look damn confused, Sherlock. Maybe this will help." And Sherlock felt John's warmth engulfing him, drowning him, pulling him under into a place where he could neither breathe nor speak. John's lips were on his forehead, his eyes, in his hair. They were burning his skin. Too much. It was too much and he wanted it to stop. The pressure in his chest was unbearable. He felt sure he was dying.

And then John sighed and touched just his fingertips to Sherlock's cheek and his lips to Sherlock's lips.

He drew back a moment later, and Sherlock watched his friend's eyes flutter closed. Saw his tongue flick out and slide over his lips again.

"Oh God, Sherlock. I'm sorry. I just wish . . ."

And Sherlock knew what John wished. Because he wished it too.

And then he was kissing John, and John was kissing him back.

*****

They managed, over the course of half an hour, to kiss their way back to John's room. And out of their clothes. And into John's small, sagging bed.

John's kisses were urgent and wet and John's body was now pressing down on Sherlock, a weight that anchored and buoyed him at the same time. Sherlock was giddy and eager and moved his hands from back to hip to face--needing to touch and tangle himself in every inch of this man.

John gasped and laughed finally--rolling away and holding Sherlock's hands still against his chest. "Sherlock," he panted, "We should---I think we should talk first. This is . . . this is new to you, so we should take it slow, let you get used to . . ."

"Bloody hell. I'm thirty-five-years-old, John. I don't want to take anything slow. That's not my nature, you know." Sherlock had John's cock in his sweaty hand and was pulling and pumping, watching John's eyes roll back as he went mute for a moment, then groaned low and long, "Fuuuuckkkkk, Sherlock. I can't last long if you keep doing that. Jesus. Yes, I . . . yes . . ."

Sherlock pulled John on top of him, curling his tongue into the shell of his ear, and whispering. "Don't come yet, please. I want you inside me. I have to have you inside me. Now, John. Now. Show me what to do. Show me."

Sherlock wrapped his long, white legs around John's body and rocked back and forth, squeezing tighter and tighter.

John wrestled away, trying to breathe again. "Sherlock, I don't think that's a good idea--not for your first time . . . why don't you fuck me instead? Or . . . there are _plenty_ of other things we can . . ."

"No. No. You don't understand. I've been empty, completely empty for twenty years and now I'm alive again. You're the reason, and I need . . . _Please_ , John."

John was strong, but not strong enough to stand his ground in this case. So he crept out of bed on wobbly legs and crossed the room to his suitcase. He returned with a bottle of lube.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Were you planning to meet some strapping Welsh farmer for a night of passion, Dr. Watson?"

John blushed. "I'm an optimist. Always thought you'd come around eventually. Gotta be prepared."

A bit more furious snogging happened, and then John said breathlessly, "I need you to follow my instructions, Sherlock--okay? Just this once. I'm sure you'll be in charge forever onward to eternity--you'll be a bossy bottom _and_ a bossy top no doubt--but this first time, let me lead, okay?"

Sherlock grasped John around the neck and pulled him in for a very bossy kiss, then nodded earnestly. "Yes. Of course. You're in charge."

John pushed Sherlock onto his side and lay down behind him pulling him close and dappling gentle kisses along his spine, listening to his heart pounding loud and fast.

"I need some time to calm down. I can't look at your face or feel your gorgeous cock against me without coming. So I'm going to spoon you and work you open slowly, okay?"

Sherlock nodded. He didn't tell John he thought he might very well climax just from hearing John say the words "work you open slowly." That seemed counterproductive at this juncture.

Sherlock did not believe in God. Or Heaven. Or Hell. But when he felt John Watson's slick fingers beginning to move inside him, he thought he had surely found the One True Religion. John teased a little, moving in and out--finding and massaging a particular spot that made Sherlock cry out in a register an octave above his normal baritone. As Sherlock began moaning helplessly, his fists grasping at the sheets, damp with sweat and pre-come, John withdrew his fingers and maneuvered Sherlock on top of him. They held a kiss and then John greedily sucked Sherlock's tongue into his mouth. Then he quickly pushed Sherlock up so he was straddling John's hips.

"Okay, Sherlock. Sit up just a little--that's it. Now slowly--I mean it-- _slowly_ lower yourself onto my cock. Not all at once. Wait. Yes, oh God in Heaven, oh yes, oh yes . . . I think you've got it."

Sherlock tried not to look smug. He knew that wasn't appropriate--this time, at least. But when he saw the look of pleasure on John's face‚ heard his moans as Sherlock took him deeper and began moving faster and . . . _Oh . . . ah . . . So this is what all the fuss is about_ . . . _fascin--oh God_. . ." At last, every rational part of his brain failed him.

There was just the movement, the feeling of being filled completely by John, just John inside him, pushing and pulsing and living in him, occupying vast empty spaces he had not known were there.

And Sherlock realized, as he finally let his eyes close a few hours later, as he let himself stop looking at the face on the pillow next to his--he realized that the old woman, Angelique, had been wrong.

His heart wasn't free now. It was bound to John's forever.

 

 


End file.
